The Suburbs Dream Of Violence.

The American Dream Has Run Out Of Gas. The Car Has Stopped. It No Longer Supplies The World With Its Images, Its Dreams, Its Fantasies. No More. It's Over. It Supplies The World With Its Nightmares Now: The Kennedy Assassination, Watergate, Vietnam.

His Mother And Father Were Agnostics, And Jim Respected Devout Christians In The Same Way That He Respected People Who Were Members Of The Graf Zeppelin Club Or Shopped At The Chinese Department Stores, For Their Mastery Of An Exotic Foreign Ritual. Besides, Those Who Worked Hardest For Others, Like Mrs. Philips And Mrs. Gilmour And Dr. Ransome, Often Held Beliefs That Turned Out To Be Correct.

Electronic Aids, Particularly Domestic Computers, Will Help The Inner Migration, The Opting Out Of Reality. Reality Is No Longer Going To Be The Stuff Out There, But The Stuff Inside Your Head. It's Going To Be Commercial And Nasty At The Same Time.

I Don't Think Any Particular Painters Have Inspired Me, Except In A General Sense. It Was More A Matter Of Corroboration. The Visual Arts, From Manet Onwards, Seemed Far More Open To Change And Experiment Than The Novel, Though That's Only Partly The Fault Of The Writers. There's Something About The Novel That Resists Innovation.

'what Was Being On The Moon Literally Like?' [. . .] 'being On The Moon?' His Tired Gaze Inspected The Narrow Street Of Cheap Jewellery Stores, With Its Office Messengers And Lottery Touts, The Off-duty Taxi-drivers Leaning Against Their Cars. 'it Was Just Like Being Here.'